If Romeo Read The Bible

(Note: This story contains sensitive language and mentions self harm.)

When you're locked up, the ways you can pass time become limited. Restricting access to positive entertainment and outlets to redirect negative behavior is intentional. The folks want us to feel every second of our sentence; they want us to remember how jail feels on our skin and how fear, uncertainty and survival weigh on the soul.

Most days, I found myself drawing Amaria from memory. Before ending up in jail behind that gang shit, I'd never even thought of picking up a pencil to carve out pictures of my thoughts on paper. In the free world, I could just pull out my phone and stare at a picture of my long time girlfriend until whatever was bothering me wasn't anymore.

Inside, all I had was what I could remember. Quickly, I realized how much I'd paid attention to every detail of her existence. I took getting another chance every day to notice about her for granted. We video called every day, but I couldn't help but wonder how'd the feel of her changed.

6 months had already passed since the first portraits of her started covering my wall. I was still trying to surround myself with her like a security blanket. The way my cellmate cackled about it let me know I was teetering the lines of obsession. Every new picture, every new perspective, every version of her lips, eyes and hips earned me another joke about being "whipped".

Little did he know, men like me get violent when they started missing their lover too much. My options were skimp: think of my girlfriend or think of ways to escape. And any plans I'd come up with for escape always ended with everybody in the facility dying.

Whether he was aware or not, his best option would be anything other than fucking with me. But I never warned him or anyone else. I was just doing my best to use Amaria as my anchor. Her face was my emotional center. Playing her voice and laughter in my head felt grounding.

Amaria was the only thing saving these motherfuckers from a having a really bad day.

"I just don't understand it, man. That's all I'm saying." Red chuckled, throwing his hands up in surrender at my ice cold glare.

It felt like he intentionally tried to piss me off sometimes because that's the only way he knew I would look up from my sketchpad. I imagine it got lonely in a cell with a brooding, lovesick basket case that only really spoke to cuss or sell you something, but there really were worse cellmates than me.

Red, on the other hand, was my cellmate nightmare.

Behind the tattoos that spotted across his shiny, bald head were alot of opinions. It didn't help he couldn't keep them to himself.

Washed up 40 somethings that spent their younger years in the streets always felt like they needed to warn us about women. As if they knew any more about loving somebody.

Had any of us in here truly loved anybody the right way anyway?

Instead of letting my curses cross the thin line my lips made between him and I, I took a deep breath and closed the black soft cover.

"I'm going to the library." I grumbled instead.

I just didn't want to hear it today.

~

Inmates pay for their crimes first in autonomy. Even going to the library required a dizzying amount of questioning and searching. My own mama wouldn't bend me over to see what I had on me as a 25 year old grown man. They patted me down, I answered their questions and gave a couple coughs, and finally, I made it to the small, dusty shelves.

This particular Georgia correctional facility kept very few options of books, not that it was surprising. You'd just think that as lucrative as the prison industry was, they'd at least spend money on the upkeep of what they did have. Ex-slave trading states especially had no interest in offering any decent material to their cattle.

My hand instinctively smoothed over a Holy Bible like it had memorized its exact position on the shelf. Its weight and wear reminded me of Amaria, she turned the pages of her favorite books a million times until the books looked like they'd been passed through a million hands.

She'd been sending me scriptures to keep me encouraged. Whether or not the messages always reached me, I couldn't say, but it was comforting to know I was touching the same book and reading the same words as her. At this point, picking up the Bible felt like reaching for her hand in the darkness.

Just as I was about to pull it out for the hundredth time, another book caught my eye. The scrawling red script across the creme hard cover was hard to ignore, perfect for a Shakespeare story. Someone had put it down in the wrong spot.

I only noticed it because it was also one of Amaria's favorites.

Vivid images of the collector's edition Romeo and Juliet soaking in the sun on the bookshelf just next to her window flickered behind my eyes. My hands mindlessly fingered the pages, my thoughts switching back and forth between actually reading and remembering the way Amaria looked when she was reading.

Jail was teaching me to appreciate the things in front of me before they're just memories.

The nostalgia made me take my time on each word, my new motivation to understand the story fueled by my desire to feel connected to Amari in whatever way I could.

By the time the guards came to get me for lock down, my mind was full of Romeo banished and yearning for Juliet so much, he wanted to die.

I laid down and dreamed of Juliet crying over Romeo's body.

The next morning, I was unable to recognize myself. In the mirror, my image blurred into Romeo, in love yet again and still so far away from happiness because of stupid mistakes.

This story was haunting me.

I didn't want Amaria to be my Juliet. Why would any man want their soulmate to love them so much they'd actually kill themselves for them?

The literal idea felt horrifying. The weight of the metaphor stung.

The day drug into evening. I stared into space, waiting for Amaria to pick up our daily video call, wondering if Romeo would've whispered over her balcony if he knew stealing her heart meant stealing her future.

Before the call could connect, I pressed the end button and dropped my head on the computer desk.